


Dwell

by significantowl



Category: Merlin (BBC), Merlin (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Community: summerpornathon, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-26
Updated: 2010-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-11 06:31:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/109477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/significantowl/pseuds/significantowl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>They make an amazing couple. Everyone says so.</i> [modern reincarnation/immortality]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dwell

They make an amazing couple. Everyone says so.

If Merlin's into his second - or especially third - glass of wine when he hears this, in the middle of a pleasant evening with friends, he's likely to tip that glass towards Morgana and say, "We're getting along quite well this century, aren't we?"

While their friends laugh at Merlin's odd little joke, Morgana will hold Merlin's eyes and her lips will curve into a slow smile.

It's true. They get along well in centuries without Arthur in them.

(Merlin loves him, all that he is, forever. Morgana loves the boy she grew up with, may even love the man, but has no love for kings.)

Merlin and Morgana live deep in the country, in a rambling old house surrounded by trees. Their friends assume without asking that this is down to Merlin's preference - Morgana looks like a transplanted city girl, in her stylish skirts and glittering jewelry. But the secret (_a_ secret - they have many) is that neither of them can bear the city for long, with all its smog and asphalt and iron.

They have dinner parties on warm nights, on their terrace under spreading green branches. They never play music. Their guests' ears hum with the sounds of living things of the night.

Merlin and Morgana always leave cleanup til morning, leave platters of roasted chicken and baskets of broken bread on the table under the stars, for whoever might want them. (There is more than one type of guest, and those who do not arrive in noisy automobiles but watch and wait in the air, in the earth, and in the trees, are no less welcome). Merlin and Morgana switch off all the lights in the house - this just takes a word, from either of them - and climb the stairs, sure-footed in the dark.

At the foot of their bed, Merlin stops.

His trousers and shirt are always wrinkled and rumpled from the evening, and there are often fresh stains on his sleeves, because he is the one who cooks. He makes no move to unbutton or unfasten, or kick off his shoes. Morgana regards him from the doorway, and he shivers, waiting.

He loves it when she pushes him to the bed and does away with their clothes, all of an instant. That disconnect between what he last sees - Morgana's perfectly-cut dress, glimmering in the moonlight - and what he suddenly feels - the mattress at his back, her smooth thighs against his, the delicious weight of her breasts against his chest. Desire turned action. Magic.

Merlin begins by positioning his cock snug against her and leaving it there, willing himself not to move, his hips not to snap. Morgana loves that, loves feeling him throb just there, pulsing and stiffening; loves seeing how hard she can make him, fingernails on his nipples, tongue and teeth on his neck.

Especially his neck. When she starts there Merlin groans, feels her smile where his blood beats.

He can never control his hips after that. He pushes up, nudges, can't keep himself from pushing in, and just as he's fully seated inside her, feels the first firm pressure circling his throat.

Morgana doesn't need to use her mouth for this. She seals that point by kissing him while he gasps. She doesn't use her hands, or his tie - she could, but when she uses her mind, fuck, that's how they both like it best.

Merlin always tries to hold on, to make this last. Slow and shallow, that's the key, and with each half-breath his head becomes lighter, dizzier, freer. Less his own. Morgana grinds down on him, her steady rhythm one Merlin can never match, not when she's got him like this, hot and trapped.

She doesn't mind. The more he thrashes, the more he pants, the more she smiles.

Because he always pants, always, no matter how hard he struggles not to, and when he can hear his ragged, broken breaths over the rushing in his ears, when his vision turns to bursting stars, when that happens -

Merlin comes hardest when he is outside himself, tethered only by need; Morgana when she is completely in control, head and hands full of their past, their future.

They really are getting along quite well this century.


End file.
